


waking up is the hardest part

by whisperedwords



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Groundhog Day AU, POV Jordan Parrish, Parrish and Lydia are Supernaturally Linked, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 11:31:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4664946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperedwords/pseuds/whisperedwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He realizes he hadn’t been dreaming that Lydia was dead in his arms.<br/>It had happened.<br/>He thinks he’s caught in a time loop. (Only in Beacon Hills, right?)</p><p>{aka the marrish groundhog day au fic that no one actually asked for}</p>
            </blockquote>





	waking up is the hardest part

**Author's Note:**

> SO!!! This fic ignores canon post-5x07. It's been established that both Parrish AND Lydia know that he's a Hellhound, and there's a supernatural connection between them--it's a physical link. You'll know it when you see it. Shout-out to Danielle for beta-ing this, and to all my followers, who saw me talking about this damn idea and continued to follow me despite how the story consumed me. (ALSO TO MONROESLITTLE, who wrote the life ruining fic "cinderella in a party dress" that inspired me to write /this/.) I don't own Teen Wolf, or anything related to it. Please let me know what you think of this??

In an unsurprising move, Jordan Parrish gets saddled with the late shift at the station once again (the third time that week, since he has a terrible time actually saying _no_ to Sheriff Stilinski) and is back at his apartment after 2am. He knows it’s not good to not sleep—hell, with all the articles his mother’s been sending him, he thinks that sleep deprivation might actually be the most lethal thing in America. (He knows that’s not true, though, and bitterly remembers the fact that he can’t actually die, but hasn’t informed his family members of the supernatural genetics floating around somewhere in his DNA. It’s not exactly his top priority.) But despite the constant warnings, from outsiders _and_ himself, Parrish consistently finds himself sitting alone in the station, staring bleakly at the clock and praying for 2:00 to just _get here already_. Most of the time, he’s by himself—sometimes, though, on nights that he counts as blessings, he’s got company in the form of Lydia Martin, who seems to enjoy bringing coffee at midnight and teasing him about his uncanny ability to turn into a bonfire.

It’d feel different if he wasn’t so tied to her, emotionally _and_ otherwise, but the fact that he’s a Hellhound and she’s a Banshee seem to make their nights together much more bearable. To be around someone so intertwined with yourself is probably the most natural and relaxing thing, and even when they’re not together, Jordan finds himself imagining her there so that he can pretend the last hour and a half of his shift isn’t as dull as it actually is.

Tonight, though, he’d been by himself, and the Sheriff had given him a massive stack of paperwork to sort and file. “I’d put you on another case, but the last time you had to deal with noise complaints...” He had gestured towards Jordan’s chest and mimicked the claws that had tried to kill him in that basement. “It’s just busy work, though. Keep you from falling asleep at the desk.” The work had been filed two hours in, and he actually _had_ fallen asleep at his desk once, for about 20 minutes. That had prompted a few slaps to the face and then a (horribly burnt) coffee from the breakroom, which had been sitting out for longer than he’d wanted to acknowledge.

But he’s home now. He’s home, and the first thing he does is fall into bed, uniform and all. God knows he deserves a little bit of sleep, and seeing as his next shift is at noon, he wants to get a _few_ hours of sleep before heading back on duty. Sleep consumes him the moment his eyes close. He dreams of fire, of flame—of burning skin and screams. He dreams of a beautiful girl enveloped in shadows, and of kisses that eat him alive. He dreams of chaos and bodies and death. (It’s still haunting, no matter how used to the hound he is—feeling the whispers of death echo in his ear is never a good thing to wake up to.)

Unfortunately, the finely-tuned internal alarm clock in his body decides to go off at 8am, and he rolls out of bed in a half-conscious puddle, splashing water on his face in the bathroom to try and fully rouse himself. He’s about to make his first cup of morning coffee when the real rousing begins. His cell goes off by his bed, and he just about falls over himself trying to answer, because the ringtone is unmistakable.

“Hello?” He asks, trying to shake the sleep from his voice so that he doesn’t sound bad. (Which—why does it matter? Lydia knows him inside out already, it’s not like she doesn’t know that he’s just waking up around this time.)

“I’ve got a lead on some Dread Doctor information.” She states, and he can _hear_ the satisfied little smirk she wears whenever she’s got a lead of some kind. “I’m headed over now, if you want to meet me there? I could use some company.” His face heats up at the flirtatiousness of her words. _God_ , how he wants to meet up with her and spend some time with her outside the station. But the Sheriff needs him, today—he can’t duck out on work for supernatural purposes, no matter how much he wants to.

“I’m on call from noon until four. Let me know where you’re going, and I’ll try and meet you there to keep you company. Sound good?” He hears her sigh audibly and curses himself for being so responsible. (His wallet reminds him that rent is due soon, though, and if he skips out on work for this girl he’d go halfway to hell for (quite literally), he’d be sleeping on the streets before the month is over.)

“Fine.” She says. “I’ll try not to find out _too_ much before you get here.” She reads off the address and he writes it down before apologizing to her and then lying face down on his bed for half an hour afterwards. He’d have been there longer, but his phone rings again, and it’s Clark, telling him that Stilinski is out for blood today for some reason and that he should get to the station sooner rather than later if he values his job.

He’s in the shower and out the door in 20 minutes.

Jordan isn’t entirely sure why the Sheriff is on the warpath today, but he can guess that it’s got something to do with his son, and decides to not question it, because things that Stiles involves himself in tend to be things that are either 1) awful to explain, or 2) unexplainable. He sits at his desk and takes the paperwork that’s aggressively thrust into his hands and starts his day of sorting and answering phonecalls.

A parking ticket payment is sitting in front of him, waiting to be approved, when the feeling first hits him. It’s like ice—first the cold knocks the breath out of him, and then it expands and starts to fill his lungs. His left hand flies to his stomach, feeling for a wound—the other hand snaps his pencil in half from adrenaline and shock. There’s no blood on his shirt, or even on his skin, and suddenly, he knows—he stumbles away from his desk before he even realizes what he’s doing, sprinting out to find a police car while Sheriff Stilinski yells after him. Everything has gone silent. He’s still cold, he’s so cold— _Lydia_. The address she gave him is burned into his brain, and he drives faster than he ever has in his life to find her.

And oh, does he find her.

The car stops short in front of the abandoned library, and Jordan practically falls out of the car in his desperation to get to her. She’s lying on her side, positioned right before the rotting front steps, and as soon as he sees her he knows. He’s on his knees in a moment, lifting her halfway into his arms and desperately trying to wake her up.

“Lydia. Lydia, _please_. Wake up. Lydia. Lydia! _Wake up_!” His right hand presses against her stomach, and he can _feel_ the wetness staining her beautiful blouse. (There’s no need to look—he knows that it’s blood.) “Lydia, god, _please_ , please wake up. I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I should’ve—” He cuts off, a strangled sob forcing its way from his throat. He shakes his head. “I should’ve come with you. I should’ve protected you—I’m supposed to protect you. God, I can’t even do _that_.” A full-on sob rattles his chest, and he buries his face into the top of her head, her beautiful red curls still warm, still alive. Lydia Martin is dead.

The ambulance shows up and finds a deputy crumpled into the body of a young woman, his hands covered in her blood.

* * *

 

Jordan Parrish wakes up the next morning, and Lydia Martin is still dead. He can still see her blood staining his hands—he still feels the dead weight of her body in his arms, still feels the hound within wailing at the loss of its queen. ( _His_ queen.) His muscles ache, his chest feels tight—his whole body misses her. It’s like he’s lost half of himself, in losing her.

He doesn’t think he’ll be able to stomach coffee today. Or tomorrow. Or ever again. But he gets up anyway, and he’s halfway to the bathroom when the phone rings. The tone is unmistakable, as it always has been, and he feels a weight settle in the pit of his stomach. Lydia’s parents must be calling him from her phone. He takes a deep breath and puts on his Deputy personality before walking back towards his bed and answering the phone.

“Hello?”

“I’ve got a lead on some Dread Doctor information.” Lydia Martin says, clearly annunciating her words and almost knocking him off his feet. She’s dead…she _died_ … “I’m headed over now, if you want to meet me there? I could use some company.”

“Oh my god. Lydia?” He asks, and he _knows_ he sounds stupid and emotional but he still can’t shake the weight of her body in his arms. “Is that you? Are you okay?”

“I….am fine….” She responds, confusion filtering through her patient voice. “Why would I not be?”

“I—oh god, I—you _died_ , Lydia, you died yesterday, I swear to god—”

“Are you having those dreams again?” She asks, cutting him off. Her voice is filled with concern, now, and he realizes that maybe it _had_ been a dream, and that it was just one of those super realistic ones, like the ones he used to have back in the military.

“I…you know what? Never mind. I’m fine. What were you saying again? Still a little tired.” He soothes almost immediately, the thought of him putting her in unnecessary distress making him feel worse than he had before.

“I’ve got a lead on some Dread Doctor information.” She says again. “Do you want to join me in my uncovering?” He thinks back to his dream, and how she had said the exact same thing. He hadn’t gone with her, and she’d ended up dead in front of a dangerous looking building. That’s not gonna happen this time.

“Yeah. But I’ve got to be at the station until four, today. How about you wait for me, and then we can head over together?”

There’s a huff on the other end of the phone, and Jordan can practically predict the words that are gonna come out of her mouth before she even says them. “The Dread Doctors aren’t going to wait for _us_ to be done with things we need to do, Jordan!” It’s the first time she’s really used his first name, and he thinks he likes it. He wishes the context was better. “I can’t just… _wait around_ until all your paperwork is sorted! The more time we waste, the more people are going to die. That’s not going to happen.”

“Lydia…” He says, half-sighing. “Please. Please, just listen to me. Just this once. I need you to wait until I’m off duty before you go.” He shakes his head. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Okay? And I don’t want anything to happen to you if I’m not there.”

A long pause follows his words. _Please please_ please _don’t let today be one of her stubborn streak days_ , he thinks desperately. God knows he’s put up with quite a few of those. “Fine.” She says after a while, and it feels like a thousand pounds have been lifted off his chest.

“Thank you.” He tries not to sound too relieved.

“Just let me know when you get off?” She asks, and he tries to ignore the double entendre in favor of his dignity (and morning productivity).

“Will do.” He replies, and she hangs up before he can say goodbye. He hopes he didn’t piss her off too much. But it doesn’t matter—he gets a call from Clark about the Sheriff being out for blood ( _just like in his dream_?) and he heads to work early, showering quickly before hopping in his car and heading over. As soon as he arrives, a bundle of paperwork is shoved into his arms, and he makes a beeline straight to his desk, where he starts to sort through paperwork. He sorts and files a handful of parking ticket payments and a few minor court orders, and he’s about to take a ten minute break for coffee when it happens. Again.

The cold feeling strikes once more, again through the stomach, and he knows that she went even though he told her not to. He knows that she’s dead. He knows that he can’t save her, not now.

He hears the dispatch, confirming that there _is_ indeed the body of an eighteen year old redhead out by the preserve, and he runs to the bathroom and loses his breakfast. The thought of Lydia being dead…a hollow feeling fills his chest. He desperately wishes he hadn’t woken up this morning.

The sheriff sends him home early, after that. (He knows about the connection—knows about the banshee and the hellhound, and sympathizes.) Parrish is numb as he walks into his apartment and heads straight for his liquor cabinet. He grabs the first thing he can find and pours himself a glass, knocking it back despite the burn in his throat. He couldn’t save her. He had predicted the future, and _god_ , he could’ve saved her. But he didn’t. He didn’t, and now he’s here, mourning her and somehow finding himself even more connected to her than he’d ever been. The tether between them felt severed and raw, and he takes several more (big) drinks to try and drown out the empty space on the other end.

Maybe he’ll drink himself to death.

He sobs, then, and feels the hound howling in pain. Its cry weaves its way into his own weeping, and the noises he’s making are just this side of animal. He doesn’t care who he wakes. Drink. He loves her—god, he _loved_ her—and she’s gone. Drink. He no longer has a guide and a partner. Drink. He drinks and he _drinks_ , and he prays that maybe, _maybe_ , he’ll make his way back to her. He blacks out.

* * *

 

He wakes up in his bed—when did he have the time or the put-togetherness to walk back over?—and rolls over, feeling nothing despite the copious amount of alcohol he had consumed the night before. Lydia is still dead. The memory makes him double over, and he feels sick. The phantom memory of her lying in his arms makes him feel dirty, suddenly—he needs to scrub it away, needs to scrub her blood off his hands, needs to scrub the feeling from his chest, his face, his _heart_. Her death had left him so numb before, but now he’s feeling everything, and he just. He wants it to stop.

His phone rings, interrupting his thoughts, and _god_ , it’s her phone—who has her phone? Who’s calling him from _her_ phone? She’s…

“Hello?” He asks wearily, trying not to let fatigue drag him back down into bed.

 “I’ve got a lead on some Dread Doctor information.” Lydia’s voice is crisp in his ear, and he has to double-take, because hadn’t this _exact_ thing happened yesterday? “I’m headed over now, if you want to meet me there? I could use some company.” And, oh my god, this exact thing had happened to him yesterday. And the day before. He realizes he hadn’t been dreaming that Lydia was dead in his arms.

It _had_ happened.

He thinks he’s caught in a time loop.

(Only in Beacon Hills, right?)

“Parrish?” She asks, and he realizes he’s been silent this whole time. Maybe he can stop the loop by actually going with her this time, instead of brushing her off for work. Maybe this is the universe telling him to pull his shit together. “Are you there?”

“Yeah! Yeah, yeah, of course. Sorry. I got lost in thought.”

“Oh? What about?”

He’s definitely not telling her about this. She’s heard too much craziness from the Dread Doctor case her pack has been going through. He doesn’t need to add to it. “Um, what excuse I’m gonna give the Sheriff. How about I pick you up in an hour and we grab coffee before?”

“ _Deputy_ ,” She gasps on the other end of the phone. He tries to fight the blush that rises to his cheeks _immediately_ at hearing that word from her mouth. “Are you asking me on a _date_?” He can almost _see_ the teasing smile on her face.

“No! No, I mean—I just—you like coffee, don’t you?” He stammers, and she laughs on the other end of the phone. It’s light and musical and something he’s learned to love. “If you don’t, I can just—meet you th—”

“I _love_ coffee.” She says, interrupting the ramble he knows he’s about to go on. He’s thankful for that. “An hour sounds good. I’ll be the one in the lavender blouse.” She says teasingly. He smiles at her words.

“I’ll be the off duty deputy in the driver’s seat.” He replies, trying to match her teasing tone. She giggles, and he counts it a win. He doesn’t even bat an eye when the Sheriff blasts at him over the phone. (“I’ll take an extra shift tomorrow.” Those words quiet the other man pretty quick.) He hangs up and _swears_ that he’s going to stop this time loop once and for all. Lydia’s not going to die because of him.

He showers and puts on a pair of khakis and a t-shirt to emphasize the “off duty” nature of his presence. He gives himself a few squirts of the cologne Lydia had bought him as an apology gift earlier that year—a “Sorry We Couldn’t Figure Out What You Are” present, something he’s been wearing every day since—and then slips out the door, ready to figure out whatever it is that _she’s_ so hell-bent on figuring out. She’s standing in front of her driveway when he pulls up in front of her house, and he rolls down his window to smile at her. “Hop in.” He says, and she winks at him before opening the passenger door and getting in.

“Does that work on _all_ the ladies you pick up in this?” Lydia asks flirtatiously, and he shakes his head, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks. Damn his full-body-blush tendencies.

“What other ladies?” He asks innocently, and she laughs as they pull away from her house and down towards the coffee shop by the school. Which reminds him—“Don’t you have school today?”

“Don’t you have _work_ today?” She counters, raising an eyebrow at him. He rolls his eyes. “And _no_. My one class for the day was cancelled. Something about the teacher getting her contact stuck in her eye this morning? She sent out an email letting us know.” Lydia flashes a grin at him. “What’s your excuse, _Deputy_?”

There’s that word again. “I, uh, I’m in good terms with Sheriff Stilinski.” Jordan pauses. “And I picked up a shift tomorrow.”

“But isn’t that your day off?” She asks, an echo of concern in her voice. He shakes his head and turns to give her a small smile.

“No worries. There are more pressing concerns than filing parking ticket payments right now.” At that, Lydia seems to settle into her seat more. He can see a hint of color prickling on her cheeks, and he’d be tempted to comment, but they’re at the coffee house, and honestly, he’s in the mood for _some_ caffeine to wake him up a little more. (Lydia helps, of course. She always does.)

They get out and stand in line, and she talks to him about the ridiculous prank that one of the seniors tried to pull a few weeks ago. He tells her about almost glowing out in front of Clark after hearing about some weird case, and she laughs so hard she doubles over, clapping a hand to his chest. He feels like every inch of skin she touched is on fire. They get to the register and Parrish grabs his wallet.

“One medium Americano, black. And…” He looks to Lydia, who thinks for a moment and then:

“Make that two.” He raises an eyebrow at her. “What? I’m trying something different. You seem like a man of good taste.” She bites her lip and smiles teasingly, and he swears, he _swears_ this girl is going to be the death of him. He’s lost in it, for a moment, but then the cashier coughs, and Parrish realizes that he forgot to give a name.

“Um, Parrish.” He says, and the guy nods and heads off to make the coffees. Lydia grabs his arm and leads him to the pick-up area, where they wait for their coffees in amicable silence. The rest of the coffeehouse is loud, anyway, since it’s before noon and everyone in Beacon Hills seems to be a caffeine addict.

(When they get their coffees, Jordan sees ‘mr.parrish’ scrawled on one cup, and ‘mrs.parrish’ on the other. He prays that Lydia doesn’t notice. He doesn’t think he can handle that kind of humiliation today.)

They head back to the car, and Lydia takes a sip of her coffee after she climbs in and puts on her seatbelt. “Oh my god. This…”

“It’s good, right?” Parrish replies, taking a sip from his own cup and marveling at how _good_ the coffee tastes, as usual. She takes another sip and then sets the cup down in the cupholder, scrunching up her face.

“If by ‘good’ you mean ‘bitter and horrible’, then yes.” She says, and he barks out a laugh at that. “That tastes like paint thinner!” She protests, though there’s a smile on her face. “That will give you _ulcers_! How can you drink that every day?”

“It’s an acquired taste, I guess.” Parrish replies, taking an exaggerated sip before putting his coffee in the cup holder next to hers. Lydia chuckles and leans her head back against the seat. “So where are we headed?”

“By the preserve, there’s this abandoned building. I think it’s a library? But I’m not sure. I haven’t been, so I don’t know.” The first loop comes back to him, in that moment, and he feels the joy bubbling in his chest dissolve quickly. He knows what building she means.

“I think I know what you’re talking about,” He says instead, trying to hide the fear in his voice. “You got what you need before we go?”

“You mean, my insatiable need to learn about the people terrorizing my friends, and you? Check and check.” She knocks her fist against the dashboard a few times. “Let’s go.” He turns the key in the ignition, and they drive off, Lydia determined to sing along to whatever’s on the radio even though she can’t sing for her life.

(It’s adorable. He wants to see her like this more. Carefree. Happy. Singing along to a shitty pop song he _knows_ she’s going to get stuck in her head later on. Things that people her age should be doing.)

They arrive at the building fifteen minutes later, Parrish drinking Lydia’s coffee after finishing his own. Without another word, Lydia is suddenly serious. She opens the door and steps out of the car before Parrish can turn the car off, and he has to call her name _several_ times before she turns around and waits for him to lock up.

“Are you sure this is safe?” He asks. She cocks her head to the side and smiles sarcastically at him.

“It’s as safe as everything here in Beacon Hills, Jordan. Don’t you know?”

“Ha ha. Cute.” He responds. “Let me go in first, at least?” Jordan doesn’t wait for her to answer, and steps in front of her, gun and flashlight in hand. He might be off duty, but he’ll be damned if he goes into this creepy place without something to defend himself—and her—from the Dread Doctors, or whatever the hell is waiting for them in there.

“A gun? Really?” She whispers harshly, and he stops walking for a second so that she bumps into his back. Her voice is muffled when she follows up with “Point taken.” They walk in, and for a few moments, he thinks that maybe there’s nothing to worry about here, and that by coming with her, he drove off the Doctors.

That thought is too good to be true, of course. Because Lydia walks out from behind him when she notices that damned _book_ lying on the floor in the room directly in front of them, and she starts walking towards it. “Lydia! Be careful!”

“It’s just a _book_ , Parrish.” She replies, and then chokes, because out of nowhere, the Doctors appear in front of her, and the leader drives their cane through her stomach. He watches in horror as Lydia crumples in front of him, feeling that same goddamned coldness spreading in his stomach, a mirror of the bright red wound blossoming against the banshee’s soft lavender blouse. The hound rears its head, then, and he feels the glow consume his body—flames lick up his arms and legs from out of nowhere, and he strides towards the Doctors, rage and anguish fogging his mind. It only clears when one of their gloved hands grasps his face, and, in a horrifying and too-late realization on his end, extinguishes the flames.

“Inconsequential.” Jordan hears among the sudden increase in clicking, and before he can ask what the _hell_ that even means, one of the other doctors drives their fist straight through his chest.

* * *

 

He wakes up screaming and clawing at where the gaping hole should be, but realizes, a little too late, that death in this time loop is like hitting the reset button. He picks up the call from Lydia on the first ring, and listens as she tells him about the information lead she’s just picked up.

“How about we do something else?” He says, trying to pose an alternative to going back to that godforsaken place. Lydia is silent on the other end. “I mean, let’s go to the library first. See what else there is to know about, I don’t know, the science behind these guys? It probably beats going to a creepy warehouse.” He holds his breath—Lydia has never been one to change plans easily, especially ones that are as important to her as getting to the bottom of whatever is threatening her friends.

“Okay.” She says, and he almost drops the phone from the flood of relief that hits him. “Should I meet you there?”

“No, no, don’t worry, I’ll come and get you—besides, you’ll be safer traveling with a cop than by yourself.” _Also the last time we drove in a car together you were so beautiful and relaxed and happy and I want that for you_. “Sound like a plan?”

“It does.” He can hear the smile in her voice. “Send me a text when you head out, okay?”

“You got it. See you soon, Lydia.”

“No need to be so sentimental, Jordan.” The teasing tone in her voice is contagious, and he can barely stop himself from saying something stupid that will make him seem like an even bigger idiot than he actually is.

“Whatever you say, Ms. Martin.” He replies instead, and hears a soft chuckle on the other end of the phone before she hangs up on him. He can feel the butterflies in his stomach, and _god_ , why is he like this around her? Why does she do this to him? He stands in the shower and thinks about her smile, and the way that the light hit her hair while she was sitting in the passenger seat next to him, and the easiness of her laughter when he tried to sing along to a song with her. He loses track of time reveling in her intricacies.

He steps out of the shower and checks his phone, which he notices has a new message—from Lydia. _Have you forgotten about our library date already?_ It reads, and _shit_ , did he really just spend an hour in the shower? That’s a first. He quickly types out a reply— _sorry, on my way now_ —and then towels off and practically falls face-first into his closet looking for something to wear. (He decides on the clothes he wore in the last time loop, appreciating the consistency even if no one else would get it.) The drive to Lydia’s feels longer, this time—his mind is spinning, and he has to find a way to keep her away from that abandoned building at all costs. She’s not going to die on him. Not today.

She’s wearing the loose lavender blouse, as she always is, and her hair is perfectly curled, as it always is—she’s beaming at him, and that’s new. He tries not to be too dazzled when he rolls down the window and says “hop in”. She winks at him, the way she had in the last loop, and he watches as she climbs into the passenger seat and leans back, staring at him with one perfectly-shaped eyebrow raised.

“Does that work on _all_ the ladies you pick up in this?” Lydia asks, a devious smile curving her lips upwards. He laughs, ducks his head. It’s just as flirty as the first time she said it, and he feels the back of his neck heat up.

“That depends….did it work on you?” He immediately regrets saying that, but her face gets pink and she pretends to ponder his words.

“Very smooth, Deputy.” She says, after a moment. Then—“It is, if you really were curious.” At that, Parrish laughs, and she smiles, biting her lower lip slightly and looking at him from beneath her lashes. She is _so_ beautiful, he thinks. Intoxicatingly so. He can’t stare at her any longer if he wants to keep driving in a straight line.

“So. First stop, library?” He asks, trying to divert the conversation somewhere less… _dangerous_. She makes a humming noise of approval, staring at her nails, now.

“I mean, this is _your_ itinerary, Deputy—I’m just along for the ride.” At that, she rests her hand over his, which is on the clutch, and he feels like his entire arm just caught on fire. The touch is brief, and he thinks that she felt it too; her hand recedes back to her own lap, and she fiddles with them rather than say anything else. Downtown Beacon County is further away than the preserve, he realizes, and if this awkward silence continues, his entire plan is going to completely fall apart.

He switches on the radio in a desperate attempt to fill the silence. He doesn’t know the name of the song that’s playing, but it doesn’t matter—he’s willing to make the sacrifice to keep things from going back to the way the other loops have played out.

So he starts to sing along.

Jordan Parrish is not a good singer, to preface—he can dance, yes, but sing? His voice was not made for rhythm or music. And yet, he doesn’t care—because as soon as he starts, Lydia breaks into a smile, ducking her head, and that makes _him_ smile. Before he even realizes it, he’s got her singing, too, and they’re both _awful_. Nothing has made him feel lighter in his life than this moment right now.

They’ve regained their normal atmosphere by the time he pulls into the library’s parking lot. (It’s nice, he notes, to bond with her over things that aren’t dead or dying. Maybe their lives could be about more than banshees and hellhounds and death itself.) She’s waiting for him when he gets to the massive oak doors, library card in hand, looking determined enough to take on the Doctors themselves.

“So we have to look for books on the usage and effects of electromagnetic energy.” She’s focused, now, and he forgets sometimes _just_ how smart Lydia Martin is. “If we can figure out the potential of the energy they’re using, maybe we can find a way to safely take out a chimera without actually hurting the person who’s being used. We could save those kids…” Her voice trails off. Parrish knows that she’s thinking about Tracy, and that she’s blaming herself even though she is the _last_ person to blame. God, she’s too young to feel this helpless, to have experienced this loss. He rests a hand gently on her shoulder.

“It wasn’t your fault.” It’s not easy to not remember _her_ dying, multiple times, because of him. “We’ll save them. We have to.” She looks up at him, then, and smiles, though it’s much less bright than it had been in the car earlier. (How many people has Lydia Martin ever had to be this reassuring hand on her shoulder? Parrish wants to believe that the pack is enough for her, that she’s being helped enough there after Allison—but there’s something about this that seems new to her, something he feels through their connection. It breaks his heart.) He lets go of her shoulder after a moment, and they head into the building, hearts a little heavier from the weight of the people they’re trying to save.

Shocking neither of them, there’s not much on electromagnetic activity within the Beacon Hills public library. Parrish approaches the front desk first, putting on the “charming deputy” look he’s been told he has and asking if there’s anything relating to it—“Doing research for the station,” He chuckles, resting an arm on the desk. The librarian, who looks like he’s in his early 20s, is watching him with wide, interested eyes. He bites a little his lip as Parrish shrugs his jacket off. “We could use all the help we can get, with all these…” He gestures his hand, unable to find a term for “supernatural activity” without actually saying it. He nods, though, and he glances over towards Lydia, who’s looking at him with her eyes narrowed and arms crossed. And… _what_?

He’d think it through more if the librarian didn’t start talking and typing.

“You know, I don’t think we’ve got anything on electromagnetic science. I’m sorry, sir.” He’s looking at his computer screen, scrolling through the long list of books that had some relation to the subject. Parrish sighs dejectedly—and maybe he’s feeling daring, with Lydia watching as his partner-in-crime, or maybe he’s just desperate for information. Whatever it is, he leans over the desk so that his face is close to the librarian’s, pretending to look over his shoulder at the computer screen. The man coughs quietly and Parrish notes that he turns a deep shade of red.

“Are you sure there’s nothing?” He murmurs. The librarian shifts in his seat and leans over the keyboard, suddenly incredibly intent on typing out proper search terminology. A few moments later, the computer lets out a little ‘ding!’, and the librarian turns his head so that he’s practically nose-to-nose with Jordan, who backs up just a little.

“If…there’s anything, it’d be in the Miscellaneous Sciences area of the research shelves.” The man bites his lip. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, _Deputy_.” The word sends a little shiver down his spine, and he smiles a little before practically running back over to Lydia, who’s now smiling deviously. He’s not sure he’s going to like what comes out of her mouth next.

“I didn’t know you were so _resourceful_ , Deputy.” She teases as he gently pushes her towards the research shelves. “You seem like you’re good at getting yourself out of _tight_ situations, huh?”

“I really, _really_ do not want to talk about this. I got us a start on where to find the books. Please, just…look on that end.” He feels like his face is burning. Lydia just cocks her head to the side sweetly and smiles innocently, something he knows she absolutely is _not_.

“Yes sir!”

This girl is going to be the death of him, he decides.

* * *

 

It’s been about thirty minutes of fruitless searching when he spots Lydia on the other side of the shelf. (To their dismay, “Miscellaneous Sciences” hadn’t been clearly labeled, which means every book on this massive length of shelving could be potentially the thing they’ve been searching for.) Her eyebrows are furrowed, and she looks like she’s concentrating on something that _might_ be important. He puts back the book he’d grabbed—something related to the history of Beacon Hills, a subject he might’ve been interested in before discovering his supernatural side—and strolls over to where she is, leaning against the shelf in front of her.

“Anything good?” He asks, and she yelps and jumps backwards a little bit.

“Jesus!” She hisses loudly while he’s doubled over in a fit of giggles. “You scared the _hell_ out of me, Jordan!” Still chuckling, he manages to stand upright.

“No pun intended, right?” He asks, only half-serious, and she whacks him in the chest with the book she’s holding. It’s both heavy _and_ dusty, so of course he gets a shot to the ribs and a lungful of dust. He starts coughing, and now _she’s_ the one giggling, trying to muffle the noise with her hand.

“You deserved that one,” She says in between laughter fits, and he can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. He opens his mouth to say something witty, or teasing, or _anything_ to keep her laughing, really, but is stopped by the figure that’s approached them.

“Excuse me, but you’re violating the noise policy that the research shelves have.” The librarian from earlier says, his arms crossed and eyes narrowed. And, _shit_. He looks mad.

“I’m sorry, we’ll be—”

“You and your girlfriend are going to have to _leave_. Now.” Yep. He’s mad. Parrish tries to say that _no_ , this is _not_ his girlfriend, and they’re very sorry, when Lydia links her arm with his and starts tugging him away.

“We are _so_ sorry. Let’s go, darling.” She smiles sweetly up at him, and then at the man, and Jordan clears his throat before turning with Lydia at his side and heading out the front doors. He can feel the laser-like gaze boring into the back of his head, and as soon as they’re out of the building, he runs a hand through his hair to feel if there’s any actual damage. (You never know—maybe there’s some supernatural wolf version of Superman?)

“So, was that _your_ first time getting kicked out of a library, deputy?” Lydia asks, their arms still linked. He tries not to notice it.

“I’m not gonna lie—it definitely was not.” He answers, high school memories from a few years back flitting through his mind. Drinking and studying was never a good idea…

“Oooh. Does that mean you were a wild bad boy?” She looks interested now. Dammit.

“The baddest,” He assures jokingly, and she laughs, resting her forehead against his shoulder for a moment before removing her arm from the crook of his elbow. He tries to muffle the disappointed feeling in his stomach and instead grins down at her. “What, you don’t believe me? I was _very_ bad when I was your age!”

“You’re talking like my _grandfather_ used to.” She teases, lifting her fist and shaking it at him. “‘When I was your age, I had to walk uphill both ways in the snow barefoot! And I was very bad at it!’” He can’t help but laugh at her ridiculous “old man” voice. She’s beaming when she looks up at him again. “Hey. Do you want to get coffee?”

Parrish grins. “Only if you’re buying.”

* * *

 

Their day is long, full of talking and coffee and lots of laughter, and Parrish almost forgets that the reason he’s doing this is so he can save her from the Dread Doctors. It’s nice—she’s meant to be with him, he swears, the way she’s so in sync with him and the way they think the same, even how she drinks her coffee; he’s flooded with affection every time he looks at her, and it’s like drowning in the best way possible.

Damn her for being so unattainable.

They end the night on the Nemeton, though he honestly can’t tell how they even got there in the first place. It’s big enough for both of them to be lying next to each other without either of them hanging over the side, and the night sky is clear, so they spend a while looking at the stars.

“What is it like? You know. To be…a hellhound.”

“You mean to be on fire?” He clarifies, and she laughs softly at that. “I can see right through you, Lydia Martin.” He’s quiet for a moment. Then… “I can’t really describe it. It’s just…it doesn’t hurt, not really—‘s less of a burning and more of a warming. Like all the heat from inside myself, all of that just…turns into flame.” He really _is_ terrible at describing things. Lydia is quiet, probably thinking. He wishes he could show her safely, but sometimes the hound’s trance is too strong for him to control, and he doesn’t want to hurt her—he’d never risk that. Never in his life.

“Does it feel like this?” She asks, breaking the silence, and he’s about to ask what she means when she rolls onto her side and kisses him, soft and sweet and gentle. He stays still beneath her—is this really happening? Is he really here right now? Is Lydia Martin really kissing him?

Ah, screw it. He rests his hand against the back of her head and kisses her back, slowly and carefully, fire building in his bones in a way unrelated to the creature inside him. She’s so good at that—at bringing his body to life, lighting the matches, coating him with gasoline. She always has been. They part for air after a few more seconds, staring at each other. He feels like he’s floating.

“Yeah. It feels a lot like that, actually.” He answers belatedly, his voice a little breathy from the shock of her kiss. She smiles. He can see her face redden, even in the darkness, and god, he just wants to kiss her again. So he does. Easily, he surges up to capture her lips in his own once more, and she feels so familiar to him. She feels like he’s going through motions he’s known all his life, even though this is the first time he’s ever done this. Her lips are warm and pliant against his, her hands cupping his face even at the strange angle they’re lying at. He could get lost here—in her embrace. It’s too easy to think about that. Because, in a moment, he’s rolled onto his side and then is hovering over her, kissing her, sucking marks against her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. Her breath is faster than normal, but somewhat steady, little noises slipping from her lips every time his teeth sink into her skin.

It’s dangerous, how badly he wants her.

They don’t do much beyond kiss, though—it’s too late, and he wouldn’t dream of doing anything to her on the goddamn nemeton, a place she’d had too many jarring experiences before him. Not tonight. No, maybe another night, after he’s saved her from being killed, after he’s escaped the hellish time loop he’s trapped in. She deserves the best. Tonight, as wonderful as it’s been, is not the best.

“I wish we could just…forget about the Dread Doctors.” She sighs later, her head resting on his chest. He runs a hand through her hair, slow and gentle. It’s incredible, he thinks, how she knows exactly what’s on his mind. All part of their connection, he supposes.

“We can, you know.” His voice is soft when he responds, the pace of his hand remaining steady. “My gas tank is almost three-quarters of the way full. We can drive until we’re out of Beacon County.” His voice gets impossibly softer. “We’d be safe. _You’d_ be safe.” At that, she tilts her head upwards to look at him. Her eyes are as sad as her smile, and he knows she’d answer this way. She can’t leave her friends. Not like this. Not now.

“You know I can’t do that.” She murmurs. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to, but…”

“I know, Lydia.” He says, his other hand reaching over to gently stroke her cheek. “I know.” Her sad smile tightens into a line, and _god_ , the burden on her shoulders is something he can’t even imagine. To be a teller of death, and to have lost so much…his thumb brushes her cheek again, and she nods a little, like she knows what he’s saying. (She does. She always does.)

“I’m glad we did this, though.” She nestles her head into his chest a little more. “I’m really, really glad we did.”

“Me too.”

* * *

 

He lies in his own bed that night, feeling like his chest is going to burst from everything that had happened.

The realization that he may or may not be head over heels in love with Lydia Martin dawns on him just as sleep drags him under.

He prays to wake up to a new day.

* * *

 

He wakes up with his internal alarm clock, as he normally does, and rubs his hands over his eyes. The events from the day before come back to him as he sits up in bed, filling his chest with that same kind of elation. The hound remembers, too, and he can feel the bristling of electricity that they seem to have shared. All he wants to do is kiss her again—

His thoughts are interrupted when his phone rings on his bedside table. It’s a ringtone he knows well, and it puts a little skip in his step as he answers it.

“Hey. I was just—”

“I’ve got a lead on some Dread Doctor information.” Her voice fills his ear, and his stomach drops. _It didn’t work_. “I’m headed over now, if you want to meet me there? I could use some company.”

He flings his phone at the wall in anguish. All that work, everything that had happened between them— _gone_. Vanished into thin air. Time had swallowed that precious event, holding her in his arms while they bare their souls on the beacon of Beacon Hills. It takes a second for him to remember that she’s still on the other end of the line, if he hadn’t just broken his cell, and he scrambles to pick it up. Fortunately, it’s still in one piece.

“Jordan?!?!” She’s half-shouting frantically as he puts the phone back to his ear. “What the hell just happened?!”

“Sorry. I just…dropped my phone. I’m okay. I promise.” He hears her exhale loudly on the other end. “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

“It’s fine, I just…” He can practically see her shaking her head. “Nevermind. Do you wanna join me on my Dread Doctor scavenger hunt, or are you just going to break your phone by dropping it again?” He can _also_ practically see the air quotes around the word ‘dropping’. Damn her for being able to see right through his lie.

He thinks it through—keeping her away from the preserve does nothing to change the timeline. Letting her go alone does nothing—and gets her killed in the process. Even if he comes, she could die anyway, seeing as she did the last time they went together.

He’s not going to let her, though.

“Yeah, I’m in.” He pauses. “Hey, swing by my place first. I’ll buy you coffee.” It feels like their thing, he thinks bitterly. Coffee and death. How appropriate, for a banshee and her hellhound.

* * *

 

 As usual, the ride to the preserve is quiet. He thinks about turning on music, but Lydia’s driving, and he doesn’t really feel all that cheery, seeing as the best day of his _life_ might have been yesterday, which she didn’t even remember. So he doesn’t say much. They chat a little, but it’s nothing memorable. Parrish dreads seeing the inside of that damn house again, walking over the same place that he watched Lydia get stabbed to death.

They arrive at the abandoned library in good time. He gets out of the car quickly, making sure he’s got a grip on his gun as he approaches the entrance.

“What’s your hurry?” Lydia asks pointedly from behind him. “This place isn’t actually going anywhere, even if it _does_ look like it belongs in hell.” He shakes his head, determined to push away the anxiety of remembering every other time he’s been here. She dies, she dies, she _dies_ , and he can’t let that happen—“Jordan?” Her hand on his arm shakes him out of his terrified thoughts, and he exhales, lowering his gun and running one hand through his hair.

“Sorry. Didn’t sleep well last night.” Her hand lingers on his arm for a few moments, and then drops to her side. “We need to be careful going in here, Lydia. If this place has information on the Dread Doctors, it’s probably because they left it there on purpose.”

“It’d make sense, them baiting us into the building.” She muses. “Probably for experimenting—but why? Are they moving on from chimeras?” She hesitates for a second. “Maybe the fact that the chimeras keep failing means that they’re moving on to natural creatures. It’d be easier to experiment on someone whose abilities are fully and consistently functional, right?”

Parrish shudders at the thought of being the next needle victim. “Right. Anyway—be careful. Please stay behind me. Try not to touch anything that looks like it could be Dread-y.” Lydia snorts, but nods anyway, and falls into step behind him as they pad towards the door. Parrish kicks it in and immediately lifts his gun once again, flashlight pointed towards the furthest wall.

It’s abandoned, like it usually is. There’s no sign of any usage in the past ten years, at _least_ —he wonders what kind of information Lydia had dug up that’d be here. Right on cue, he hears her say something—it’s muffled, though. He misses most of it. “Huh?”

“I _said_ , look. In that room over there—the book.” True to her word, and his last encounter here, there’s an open copy of _The Dread Doctors_ lying face-down on the dirty wooden floor of the next room. He knows exactly what she’s going to do. (He remembers—she picks it up and then is stabbed through the stomach. It’s too vivid in his mind, he can’t unsee it.)

“I’ll get it. Don’t move. Okay?” She huffs a sigh but agrees, and stands where she is with her arms folded across her chest, grumbling about how _it’s just a book, Jordan_. She’ll see—he’d rather be the one that gets a spear to the stomach than her.

He reaches the threshold of the next room and picks up the book, eyes scanning the words on the page. “Anything I should be looking for?” He asks, flipping through the book as if he’s read it before. He hasn’t, of course—but he feels like he should, seeing as his town has been the victim of several attacks by them.

His thoughts are interrupted when he hears her scream.

 _No_.

His eyes fly up from the text only to see the cane shoved through her stomach, bloody as before. He crosses the room in a heartbeat to catch her before she hits the ground. (Somewhere, from above, he hears the Doctors clicking—he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care. They can take him too.)

“Lydia!” He says forcefully, trying to grab her attention. Her eyes are glassy. There’s blood spilling from her lips. “Lydia, hey. Hey. Look at me. You’ve gotta stay awake, okay? I’m gonna call for help right now, but you need to stay awake.” The panic is rising in his throat, suffocating him, and even though he’s felt her die several times before, it’s nothing compared to this. He doesn’t think he’s ever been in this much pain in his life.

She’s crying. The tears are spilling from the corners of her eyes, and god, _god_ , what can he do? What is he supposed to do? “I’ve got you, Lydia. It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.” He cradles her in his arms, one hand cupping her face while the other keeps her propped up in his embrace. “It’s gonna be okay, Lydia. You’re gonna be okay.” Lydia, brave Lydia, smiles at him. It’s that same tight smile she gave him back on the nemeton what seems like a _lifetime_ ago, when she was okay, when she was in his arms because she wanted to be. She lifts her arm weakly, and, with labored breathing, rests her hand on his cheek. It’s cold. It’s clammy. He’s never been more scared in his life.

“Jordan…” She whispers, and he lets out a sob, unable to fight it back any longer. He uses the hand he had been cradling her face with and holds her hand against his face. That tight smile softens a little, and he shakes his head, desperate for another outcome. Any outcome. _Please_.

Lydia dies in his arms inside an abandoned library building. He calls an ambulance solely because it’s procedure, not letting go of her until the paramedics arrive and forcefully pry him from her body. (Just because he’s seen it happen, doesn’t make it hurt less. In fact, it hurts more.)

He drives back to the station in her car. Her blood is staining his clothes. He feels numb. But it’s okay—he’s going to wake up, and the universe will restart, and he’s going to do this all again.

That night, he falls asleep, but doesn’t dream.

* * *

 

He wakes up the next morning tired. Not even tired in a sleep way—though that’s somewhat applicable, seeing as he went to bed at an ungodly hour—but more of a tired that weighs his bones down, begs him to lie in bed and not do anything. He knows he has to, though—he has to answer Lydia’s call, he has to find a way to protect her from the Dread Doctors, he has to keep himself from falling even deeper in love with her. It’s quite the to-do list. Jordan pours himself a mug of coffee, and he sits at the island of counters in the middle of his kitchen, and he waits.

He waits, and he waits, and Lydia doesn’t call. And all of a sudden, the realization hits him like a train.

He’s finally living the next day that he feels like he’s been waiting _years_ for. And Lydia Martin is still dead.

He throws his mug of coffee to the ground and he sobs. The time loop is broken. This is the correct sequence of events. She was supposed to die. She was supposed to die in his arms, and he was supposed to not be able to save her. (Why? Why her? Why was he meant to not save her? Why was he forced to remember every single version of her death, while she remembered none of the life she had spent with him?) He curls in on himself on his barstool, and he cries for a while. He remembers the feeling of her lips on his, of her hand on his arm, the sound of her laugh in his ear as they sang together in his car. In the shower, he remembers the way her voice was so soft with him on the nemeton, and how she had told him she’d wanted to go with him. They could’ve run away—he could’ve saved her, then. Swept her off her feet and drove her straight out of Beacon Hills and far away from wherever the Dread Doctors could find her. She’d be safe, and maybe lonelier than she’d want, but she’d be _alive_ —but who is he kidding? Lydia wouldn’t have left her friends.

God, her friends. Her _pack_. People who were just as close to her as he had been, if not more; her friends, who had grown with her and loved her just like he had. (Well. Maybe not _just_ like he had.) He snaps out of his grief spiral, then, and the deputy part of him rears its head. He has to tell them. They deserve to know the truth.

He dresses slowly. The badge on his shirt feels heavier than usual, though he thinks he’s projecting. The car ride to the station is long, too—he feels like he can still smell her perfume wafting from the seat next to him. He doesn’t turn on the radio, because he’s afraid that it’s going to just remind him of her all over again, and he doesn’t—he doesn’t need that.

He pulls into the station and sees two cars and a motorbike parked out in front of the entrance. Thank god for Sheriff Stilinski, he thinks; Jordan isn’t sure if he’s going to be able to voice the words “Lydia is dead” to them. He walks through the doors, and they’re all there, eyes red and sad and so, so empty. He’s pretty sure he looks the same.

They all look up at him as he walks by them towards his desk, and he makes eye contact with each one of them.

_They know. They know. They know._

* * *

 

Sleep evades him, that night. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the lavender blouse stained with blood. He sees her lying on the ground, sees her lying in his arms, sees her gazing up at him with an adoring smile and innocence. It makes him sick. He’s afraid to close his eyes that night.

The worst part, he thinks, is that it was painful for her. That she had to feel the cane in her stomach, every single time, and that he left her alone. Had he been there…had he not gone after the book, things could’ve been different. He might have been able to save her. The bottle of whiskey sitting on his counter is staring him in the face, beckoning him. And god. He wants to do it so badly. Nothing would be easier than drinking until he blacks out and dies. (It’s not like he would stay dead, anyway.)

Oh, maybe _that’s_ the worst part. The fact that he’s stuck with this immortality of a hellhound, but she’s not. The fact that he’s meant to be bulletproof, to be unbreakable, while she’s the opposite. He remembers seeing her after what Tracy had done—the blood had haunted him then, too, seeing her lying on the ground and being unable to heal her the way he can heal himself. His hands start shaking involuntarily at the memory. Is this where he’s meant to end up? Alone? Without the other end of his supernatural tether to hold onto, to protect, to love? It’s fitting, he thinks, that he’s meant to be the protector of supernatural creatures, and in the end couldn’t even save the one he needs most.

Parrish doesn’t decide to drink that night. He tells himself it’s because he deserves to live with the guilt of her death. (He doesn’t tell himself that he’s terrified of seeing her face in his dreams again, and that alcohol will only lead him further into the madness of losing her.)

When sleep finally does come for him, it swallows him whole.

* * *

He doesn’t want to wake up the next morning. Nothing— _nothing_ seems like it’s worth it, then, and god, he’s woken up to so, so many bad things over the past few days. He’s not sure he can take another blow so early. He rolls over and falls back asleep.

He wakes up again to the sound of his phone alarm _blaring_ at him. It’s piercing, the noise—he can’t drown it out with a pillow or his hands, so he reaches out blindly and grabs for it. When he finally gets a hand on it, after knocking over a few papers, he tries to turn off the event. He’s not getting out of bed today. He won’t. But he’s too tired, and his fingers aren’t hitting the screen correctly, so it keeps beeping at him. Frustratedly, he tries to rub the sleep from his eyes to see what’s currently keeping him from sleep—he almost drops his phone when he reads the date.

May 23rd. The words “BESTIARY SEARCH W/LYDIA” flash across his screen. There’s no way this is happening. He can’t—he can’t be _here_. Can he?

He’s four months in the past.

The time loop isn’t done.

He remembers, vaguely, today had been the last time they decided to do this—the search had been fruitless the first time, and they hadn’t found the right books. The one including hellhound mythology had been something, ironically, he had found in a book at home, collecting dust on his shelf. It was from when he was young—before he’d wanted to become a cop, or even join the army, Jordan Parrish had wanted to be a historian. It was the greek myths that intrigued him the most—stories of gods and goddesses descending down on mortals, bringing light where there had been none otherwise. He remembers being drawn to the book, one night, after probably a few too many drinks—he’d brushed the cobwebs from the cover and flipped through it absentmindedly, landing on a page that said _Hellhound_ in (unnecessarily) haunting looking letters. It was crude—but it felt right. He had called Lydia straight away and told her, nerves building in his gut, that he’d done it—he’d found it out.

And he had.

His eyes drift to the bookcase, where that same book is sitting amongst dictionaries and old books he really only had for decoration. (As a deputy, he hadn’t really had the time to pick any of them up—but it looks nice, and on nights that he wakes up in a sweat, nightmares still swirling in his brain, the wall of literature was a sort of comfort that kept him from verging on total hysteria.) Slowly, he pads towards it, and with a tentative hand, pulls it from the case, its pearly white spine sticking out from the darker, older books. In moments, he’s found the _hellhound_ page, and he scans the first few lines before dialing Lydia’s number.

He’s going to change how things go, this time around.

“Parrish?” Lydia’s voice is a little rough, a little sleepy, and he _knows_ that she’s just woken up from a nap. (She deserved it, but—this is important. She needs to know.)

“I found the book.” He says, simply. There’s a pause, then, and he worries for a moment that maybe, just maybe, he’d overestimated her willingness to help. After all, in the original timeline, today _had_ been the day that they’d given up. Maybe…

“I’m on my way over.” Her voice is sharp and clear all at once, sleep seemingly forgotten, and he lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Tell me your address?”

He relays the apartment address and number and, once they’re off the phone, scrambles to clean the house a little bit. He doesn’t have a plan for how this day works out, not after this change—so everything has to be perfect. He’s not allowed to screw this one up.

She shows up 10 minutes later, and he’s been so absorbed in getting most of the dust off of his floor that he’d forgotten to shower or change out of his pajamas. The knock at his door almost makes him fall off the chair he’d been standing on. Surprising no one, Lydia Martin looks like she just stepped out of a magazine, wearing a lavender blouse—the same one, he thinks bitterly, how ironic—and her hair is curled slightly at the ends. Her smile is tentative and he can’t help but fall a little more in love with her like this. He’d almost forgotten how she’d been willing to help so much, even at the beginning, even before all of the tragedy of the Dread Doctors.

“Lydia.” He says, and his voice is soft, softer than he’d intended. Lydia’s smile gets a little bigger at that, and she cocks her head as if to ask _can I come in_? He opens the door a little wider and makes a grand swooping gesture, something she giggles at before walking into his living room. It’s nice. He likes that laugh. He’s said it before, but he could probably live in it.

Not that that matters right now, but still.

“So, where’s this _book_ you found?” She inquires. Tension slips into her voice at that, ever so slightly, and Jordan realizes that he’s about to show her a children’s picture book. He hopes she believes him.

“Promise me you won’t laugh.” Parrish says in precaution. She nods, raising one eyebrow, and he exhales slowly before pulling _Greek Mythology; the Pictionary_ out from behind his back. Almost instantly, a snort of air fills the silence that had developed between them. He narrows his eyes, only mildly offended. Lydia holds her hands up in defense and then grabs the book from his hands, stifling her amusement a little better.

“So…what _exactly_ did you find?” There’s a little suspicion in her voice now, too, and to be fair, he’d be the same way if the roles had been reversed. But he’s confident, now. He knows what he is this time around.

“I…there’s a section on this thing called the Wild Hunt on page 65, and it talks about…”

“Hellhounds.” She says, finishing his sentence. She’s on the page now, he notes, and her eyes are flying across the page, widening with each paragraph. “Oh my god. Jordan.” She reaches out and grabs his arm, squeezing it lightly; her touch is like fire on his skin. “You’re a hellhound.” Pause. “You’re a _hellhound_!” In a moment, before he can even process it, she’s tossed the book to his table and is throwing herself into his arms, disbelieving laughter spilling from her lips. He barely catches her he’s so stunned by this reaction.

(Her reaction in the original timeline had been something calmer—more like she’d suspected it and it was just confirmation. Here…it’s like he’s dealing with a different version of her.)

(Dread Doctors will do that to you, he guesses.)

It feels natural for him to bury his face in her shoulder, as she’s done the same with him, her hands scrabbling at his (bare) back in excitement. He inhales. She smells like strawberries, like fresh laundry and a little bit of coffee. It’s perfect. It’s Lydia.

“Does this call for a celebration?” He asks before he can stop himself. With her in his arms, the hound is rearing its head and urging him on, making him braver. She stills, though, and oh—maybe that wasn’t such a good thing to say. She slowly pulls away from his embrace, and he’s ready to open the door so that she can leave, but she…doesn’t.

“ _Deputy_ ,” She drawls, a smile playing on her face. “Are you asking me on a _date_?” He’s heard those words before. While he can’t fight the blush off of his face, he _can_ fight the frog that’s decided to lodge itself in his throat at her words. He’s not gonna mess it up this time. He can’t.

“If that’s what you wanna call it…” He says teasingly, and she whacks him in the chest, the skin-on-skin contact making him cringe. She apologizes quickly, but he shakes his head. (She’s hurt him in worse ways—ways that he’d rather not think about right now. This feels like nothing.) “What do you say to coffee?”

She bites her lip, pretends to think the offer through. “Only if you’re paying.” She concedes, and he chuckles at that.

* * *

 

The next morning he wakes up, there’s a weight on his chest. That is, both metaphorically _and_ literally. He’s too tired to open his eyes just yet, and rolls over, his brain going through every timeline and trying to put together what’s coming next. What date will he end up at today? Had he lived that day correctly? Is he going to be launched into the future, where he has to speak at her funeral? Is he going back further, to the day he first met her, to stop her from going into that house in the first place? The questions are heavy.

The literal weight on his chest is heavier. Parrish blinks his eyes open, turning over the other way to see what he’d fallen asleep reading, only to see something that he had definitely _not_ read.

An arm is draped over his torso, the owner’s hand resting on his shoulder lightly. His breath catches in his throat. He _recognizes_ that hand. He tilts his head a little further, so that he’s got a better view of whoever is in his bed with him.

A mess of red hair covers her face, but god, he knows it’s her. Lydia is asleep still, a peaceful smile stretched across her face as she’s curled up next to him under the sheets. A split second later, he realizes that she’s naked. And he is too. His heart stops. Carefully, so as not to wake her, he reaches over to grab his phone from his sidetable. Unfortunately, he doesn’t realize it—or maybe he does—but Lydia is a light sleeper. She stirs awake next to him, a soft groan escaping her lips.

“Mmmm, Jay?” She slurs, her voice sleep-heavy. “What’re you doing, baby?” He feels his heart in his throat. There’s no way…

“What day is today?” He tries to keep his voice sleepy and rough, but she can tell there’s a little more going on beneath the surface, even in her current state. She leans her head on his shoulder.

“It’s September 30th.” She hums. “Jordan, what’s going on?” _September 30 th_. The day after she’d called him about the Dread Doctor information the first time. Tears rush to his eyes, then, at the realization.

The timeline has been fixed. Lydia is alive, with him. He’d saved her. “Nothing. Nothing, sweetie. I’m okay.” He smiles at her, fighting back the waterworks. “Actually, I’m better than okay.” At that, she beams up at him, and her smile is blinding, even at 8 in the morning. (Safe at last.) He scoots a little closer to her and leans towards her pillow, accidentally kissing her nose instead of her lips. She lets out a little snort of laughter.

“You’re such a dork,” She hums affectionately, and he smiles, pressing his lips to hers like he’s been wanting to do for what feels like forever. Her hand comes up to cradle his face, rubbing the pad of her thumb gently against his cheek. They part for air, and Parrish swears to god he’s the luckiest man alive.

“You love it, though.” He replies, pressing his lips to hers for a few short little kisses. “I’m _your_ dork.” At that, she scrunches her face up, pretending to think about the statement for a moment. Then it smooths out, a soft Lydia smile that she’s only smiled for him lights up her face. It feels like all the air has been sucked from his lungs.

“Yes, you are.”


End file.
